Quicksilver's Catch

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

“I landed in…in…a damn mule pie!”

Marcus burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. Now that he knew it was mostly Amanda’s dignity that was injured, he felt intensely relieved. Even when she cursed him and smacked his arm hard enough to make him lose his balance, he couldn’t stop laughing.

“That’s you, then?” he said, chortling, crinkling up his nose and sniffing dramatically.

“Oh, please.” She pitched him a look of pure, undiluted murder. But it was dry murder now. The tears, thank God, were gone.

“I hate you, Quicksilver. I truly, truly do.” She shook her fists at the sky. “Just look at me! I’m sitting here all crippled and smelling to high heaven, and all you can do is laugh like a damn, demented hyena!”

Dear Reader,

All of us at Harlequin Historicals would like to wish Mary McBride a warm congratulations on making the USA Today bestseller list with her story in our OUTLAW BRIDES collection along with authors Ruth Langan and Elaine Coffman. Mary has a new book out this month, a Western romance called Quicksilver’s Catch. This delightful story features a runaway heiress bride and the tough-as-nails bounty hunter who is determined to make as much money as he can from his association with the willful young woman, if she doesn’t drive him to drink first. Don’t miss this warm and funny story of two people who really don’t belong together.

A devil-may-care nobleman finds redemption in the arms of the only woman who can heal him, in Margaret Moore’s The Rogue’s Return, the next installment in her MOST UNSUITABLE… series set in Victorian England. And Outlaw Wife by Ana Seymour is a bittersweet Western about the daughter of a notorious outlaw who loses her heart to the rancher who saves her from jail.

Fleeing Britain and marriage to an elderly preacher, an English adventuress becomes involved with an American spy in our fourth title for the month, Nancy Whiskey by Laurel Ames.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you’ll keep a lookout for all of our books, wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Quicksilver’s Catch

Mary McBride

MARY McBRIDE

is a former special-education teacher who lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two young sons. She loves to correspond with readers and invites them to write to her at: P.O. Box 411202 St. Louis, MO 63141.

Prologue

“Miss Amanda says she doesn’t want to eat, ma’am.” Bridget flexed her knees, as much to steady herself on the moving train as to show proper respect to her elderly and exceedingly rich employer.

“Poppycock.” Honoria Grenville snatched a hanky from her black sleeve and waved it brusquely at the maid. “My granddaughter hasn’t eaten a bite since we left Denver yesterday. Give her the tray, Bridget.”

“Oh, but, ma’am…”

“Now.” Mrs. Grenville’s voice was as adamant as the rap of her ebony cane on the floor of her private Pullman Palace car.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bridget flexed her knees again, stifled a sigh of resignation, and made her way toward the curtained sleeping compartment. Rich people. They baffled her and made her very nervous.

“Won’t you have a bite of supper, Miss Amanda?” she crooned, a bit hesitantly, through the closed drapes as she hoisted the large silver tray shoulder high and slipped it between the brocade folds. When there was no response, Bridget bit her lip and stepped back. Oh Lord, here we go again, she thought when a teacup whizzed inches from her nose, to crash against the mahogany paneling on the opposite side of the car. The saucer followed a second later and met with the same shattered fate.

Then, suddenly, it was raining. Peas and carrots! Saints preserve us! Forks and spoons! Bridget ducked just as the big silver tray sailed over her head, skimmed the length of the Oriental carpet, and came to rest at the black hem of Honoria Grenville’s dress.

“That will be quite enough, Amanda.” The old woman’s cane came down, denting the tray. “Bridget, did she hear me? Tell my granddaughter I won’t tolerate this behavior any longer.”

A muffled shout came from behind the curtains. “Tell my grandmother I heard her, Bridget. And tell her the minute she stops keeping me prisoner and lets me go back to Denver to marry Angus McCray, she won’t have to tolerate my bad behavior anymore. I’m going to marry him, Grandmother. Did you hear me? Did she hear me, Bridget?”

One look at Mrs. Grenville’s livid face proved to the maid that she had, indeed, heard the threat. “I believe she did, miss,” Bridget said, her gaze flick-ing nervously now from her irate employer to the brocade curtains, which were rippling and waving, as if from Miss Amanda’s hot breath.

It was a continual surprise to the young Irish-woman that rich people argued. And so vehemently. too. If she had money, she thought, and especially a fortune like the Grenvilles’, she’d be as dreamy and contented as a cow in clover, as blissful as a sow in springtime mud. Of course, like Miss Amanda, she’d want to marry the man of her choice, and she’d be furious, too, she supposed, if she’d been snatched from the altar just as she was about to speak her vows, the way Miss Amanda had been yesterday.

“Angus McCray is a fortune hunter and a scoundrel,” Mrs. Grenville said in a booming voice.

“I’m still going to marry him, Grandmother.”

“What did she say, Bridget?”

“She said…”

“I said—” Amanda’s voice rose from the depths of the sleeping compartment “—that I’m still going to marry him. I said you can’t keep me under lock and key forever, Grandmother, and the minute your back is turned, I’m going back to Denver. You wait and see.”

“What did she say, Bridget?” The ebony cane stabbed the tray again and again. Honoria Grenville’s knuckles were fierce white knobs on the handle. With her other hand, she waved her lace hankie again. “Come here, Bridget,” she demanded. “Tell me what she said.”

“Well, ma’am…” The little maid edged away from the sleeping compartment, picked her way through peas and carrots and flatware as daintily as her brogans would allow, until she stood directly in front of her employer. She curtsied again—out of habit, or from nerves—thinking she’d rather stand between the armies of blue and gray than between these two women. She swallowed hard before she spoke.

“Well, ma’am, putting it in a nutshell, Miss Amanda said she’s bound and determined to marry the rogue.”

With the hankie, Mrs. Grenville motioned her even closer. The light in the old woman’s pale blue eyes struck Bridget now as more like a glimmer of hope than the earlier spark of anger. “And did she say she loves him?” Mrs. Grenville whispered. “Did my granddaughter say anything about love?”

“Love?” Bridget gulped the word, and then frowned. Had she? Had Miss Amanda, in all her righteous fury, shouted a single word about love?

“No, ma’am. No, she didn’t. Not as I recall.”

The old woman closed her eyes for a moment and sagged into the upholstery. The hankie drifted from her hand. She sighed. “Precisely what I thought.”

Bridget felt an unaccustomed tug of pity for her wealthy employer just then, but before she could offer so much as a comforting cluck of her tongue, the old woman stiffened her spine, rammed her cane into the floor once more, just missing Bridget’s foot, and bellowed, “Over my dead body, Amanda Grenville.”

Chapter One

North Platte, Nebraska 1874

“Shine your boots, mister?”

“Scat.”

“Aw, come on. Them boots of yours could do with a little spit and polish, and I sure could do with a nickel. What do you say, mister?”

“You’re a pest.”

“I’m enterprising.”

“Same thing.” Marcus Quicksilver thumbed up the hat that was shading his face in order to get a look at the kid who’d been buzzing around him like a gnat for the past five minutes. He expected to see a chubby, apple-cheeked tycoon, but instead his eyes lit on a skinny boy with smallpox scars and a single suspender that was failing miserably at holding up a pair of too-big pants.

“How old are you, kid?”

“None of your beeswax.” The boy aimed his pitted chin into Marcus’s face as if it were the barrel of a nicked and battered derringer. “Nine, if you have to know. How old’re you?”

“Ninety.” Marcus grinned, then quit when his forehead felt as if it were splitting down the middle. He muttered a soft curse, offered up another promise never to touch bar whiskey again, and closed his eyes. “Make that ninety-five.”

“You could sure use a shave, mister.”

Marcus traced his fingers along his jaw, where the three-day growth was old enough now to feel soft, rather than bristly. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re an enterprising barber, too. Right?”

The boy laughed. “Naw. But for a nickel, I’ll set you up with the best danged barber in town.”

“No time.”

“You waiting for the train?”

“Yep.”

The boy fished a gold watch from his pocket, clicked it open and studied its face. “Aw, you got a good twenty minutes before the westbound’s due. That ain’t enough time for a haircut, maybe, but it’s plenty for a shoeshine.” He dropped the watch back in his pocket and peered at his potential customer. “Well? How about it?”

Shifting in his chair, Marcus unwound his legs and stretched them across the planking. He stared at his boots a moment, wondering when it had ceased being important to him to have shined boots, a shaved face or well-pressed clothes. Wondering if he was as unkempt inside as he was outside. If his heart and soul were as disreputable as the rest of him. Wondering if he cared.

“You win,” he said at last, with a sigh of resignation. “Have at it, kid.”

“Yessir!” The boy snapped his soiled chamois rag, knelt, then promptly spat on Marcus’s left boot and got to work.

“Mighty nice timepiece for a bootblack,” Marcus said casually, looking down at the top of the boy’s head. The hair there was yellow and wild as fresh pitched hay, and probably hadn’t seen a comb all month. “Did you lift that watch from a fella heading east or west?”

“Neither.” He stopped working the shine rag long enough to pat his pocket. “This here watch is a legacy from my pappy. He was rich.”

“Uh-huh,” Marcus drawled. “What was your rich pappy’s name?”

“Joe. Joe Tate.”

“Mighty poor speller for a rich man.”

The boy glanced up now, his eyes big and quizzical. “What…what do you mean?”

“The initials on your watch, son.” Marcus winked. “Somebody named N.F.R. is walking around somewhere right now, scratching his head and wondering whether it’s ten minutes till or ten minutes after, I expect.”

The pockmarked little face flushed with color, and the boy swallowed hard. “You won’t tell anybody, will you, mister?”

“Not as long as you promise me you’ll quit stealing watches.”

The boy released the chamois cloth just long enough to sketch a quick cross over his heart. “I swear,” he said. “Honest I do.”

Marcus sighed and closed his eyes again. I swear. Honest. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if, ten years from now, he was tracking this kid, once he graduated from watches to payrolls, from petty larceny to felony or worse. Now that was a depressing thought—Marcus Quicksilver still in the saddle riding down lowlifes a decade hence, at the ripe old age of forty-four. God almighty. He’d probably need spectacles to read the Wanted posters.

Not that his keen eyesight was doing him any good at the present. His last three bounties had been pure busts. He’d gotten to El Paso on the heels of Elmer Sweet, a rival manhunter, who’d had himself a great guffaw when he led his thousand-dollar prisoner right past Marcus’s nose. A month after that, he’d had the hell kicked out of him by a horse thief named Charlie Clay, who turned out of be the wrong Charlie Clay, one with no bounty on his head. And damned if three days ago Marcus hadn’t arrived in Rosebud just in time to watch his quarry take a long drop from a short rope in the town square.

He never used to lose bounties before, Marcus thought. Every man he set out to catch, he caught. Over the past decade or so, he’d earned himself a fearsome reputation. Often as not, if a man heard that Marcus Quicksilver was on his trail, he’d know he was as good as done for and just turn himself in to the nearest available lawman.

Ten years. Twelve. How long had it been? Marcus stared at the yellow-headed kid now, thinking the boy hadn’t even been born when he collected that first bounty. Suddenly it seemed like the criminals were getting younger and faster with each passing year, while he was getting older and slower and…

“That’s not true, dammit.” Marcus said it out loud as he jerked his leg and pushed himself straighter in the chair.

“Hey, watch it,” the kid snapped. “Who’re you talking to, anyway?”

“Nobody. Mind your own business.” Marcus settled back in the chair again, attempting to relax his leg and to clear his aching head of such dismal thoughts.

Hell. If he wasn’t getting any younger, he certainly wasn’t getting any richer, either. It kept getting harder and harder to save that last few thousand dollars toward the land he’d hoped to buy. Even when he did collect a bounty these days, by the time he got back to Denver he’d be honestly surprised that most of it had slipped through his fingers.

Since they’d hanged Doc Gibbons in Rosebud, there wasn’t even sand to slip through Marcus’s fingers this time out. Still, here he was sitting in the sunshine at a train depot in Nebraska, getting his boots shined for a nickel when his pockets were very nearly empty. That realization made his head ache all the worse.

“Psst.”

He opened a single eye at the sound of the nearby hiss but didn’t see anyone, so he settled deeper in the chair.

“Psst. Yoo-hoo. Little boy.”

The brisk cloth stopped moving across Marcus’s boot when the boy said, “You calling to me, lady?”

Marcus hadn’t seen anybody—lady or otherwise—but when he opened both eyes now he caught a glimpse of a little female in fine traveling clothes peeking around a corner of the depot.

“Yes, I am calling to you.” She smiled and crooked a gloved finger. “I’d like to speak with you. Would you come here a moment?”

The kid dropped his chamois rag and tore off in her direction, leaving Marcus with one boot shined and the other still covered with trail dust. He started to curse, but then he laughed instead. It wasn’t the first time a young entrepreneur had let his business go all to hell when beckoned by a pretty smile. He, himself, had lost a bounty or two when distracted by other, softer pursuits.

He leaned forward, picked up the rag, and went to work on the dusty boot, thinking maybe he’d keep the nickel—Lord knew he could use it—but knowing he wouldn’t deduct even a penny from the scrawny little hustler’s pay.

“There you go frittering away money again, Marcus,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head with dismay more than disgust. “When are you going to learn?”

Both boots looked pretty good, in Marcus’s opinion, by the time the kid reappeared a few minutes later. But instead of returning to finish the job he had started, the boy walked right past Marcus’s chair, toward the door of the depot.

“Whoa. Wait a minute,” Marcus called after him. “You started something here, pal. For a nickel, remember? Here’s your shine cloth.” Marcus waved it at him.

The scrawny boy stopped for a second, his hand on the door, and then he shrugged. “Aw, that’s all right, mister. You keep ‘em. The nickel and the rag both. I don’t need either one of ‘em now.” He flashed a lopsided grin before he disappeared inside the depot.

Marcus sat there a minute, shaking his head in bafflement while staring at the dirty and now abandoned rag in his hand. Then, just at his shoulder, a throat was cleared with polite insistence.

“Excuse me, sir. Could you possibly tell me what time it is and how soon the train is due?”

Marcus looked up into a pair of eyes the color of money, the shade of greenbacks fresh from the press. They were bright and clear and rich with promise. Below those was perched a delicate nose, and somewhere in his field of vision there was a mouth that struck him as sensual and eminently kissable, for all its primness. It was only when that mouth twitched with impatience at each corner that he realized he hadn’t answered the question it had posed.

He balled up the boot rag, tossed it onto the planking, then tugged his watch from his pocket. “It’s five past eleven, miss. The westbound’s due any minute now, if it’s running on time.”

“Good. I certainly hope so.” Saying that, she whisked her skirt around and walked back to the edge of the depot, where she’d been standing earlier.

Well, not standing, exactly. It was more like skulking, Marcus thought now, vaguely aware of a little flicker of disappointment in his gut. He was used to women making advances toward him, some shyly asking the time, despite the watches pinned to their breasts, others coming right out and telling him they’d never seen a more handsome devil in all their born days and was he married or promised or going to be in town long? None of them, however, ever skittered away to skulk once the connection had been made. Ever.

He didn’t consider himself a ladies’ man, exactly, but he wasn’t a rock by the side of the road, either, dammit. This little lady’s obvious disinterest had definitely taken a chunk out of his male pride. He scowled at his boots a minute and rubbed his jaw before getting up, stretching and sauntering her way.

“Nice day.”

He might as well have been a rock, the way she ignored him.

Marcus nudged his hat back a fraction. “You headed west, miss?”

Her pretty face tipped up to his, and those green eyes regarded him with cool disdain, less like a rock now than like something that had crawled out from under one.

The hell with her. Marcus would have turned on his heel and bidden her good-day and good riddance then, if he hadn’t noticed the tiny trembling of her lips and the way her fingers shook when she reached up to brush a stray wisp of blond hair off her forehead. She was nervous. No. More like frightened. Scared to death. Only you couldn’t tell it by her voice.

“I’m not in the habit of talking with strangers,” she told him in clipped, cool tones, then added an icy “Go away,” just to make sure he got the point.

He got it, all right, and—scared or not—he was about to give her a view of his departing back when she muttered, almost under her breath, “Where the devil is that little boy? What in the world could be taking him so long?”

“Pardon?”

She sighed and spoke as much to the clapboards on the side of the depot as she did to Marcus. “I asked that young shoeshine boy to purchase a ticket for me. I gave him two twenty-dollar gold pieces and told him to hurry. He ought to be back by now.”

Or halfway across the state by now. No wonder the little son of a bitch had been in such a sweat to leave Marcus and his boots and his damn nickel behind.

“Excuse me, miss.” Touching a finger to the brim of his hat, Marcus turned and walked away.

Amanda peeked around the building for a last glimpse of the stranger, whose whiskers hadn’t totally concealed a strikingly handsome face. Even the shade of his hat hadn’t been able to hide eyes that were bluer than a prairie sky at noon. And now, as he walked away, Amanda couldn’t help but notice how wide his shoulders were and how his gunbelt hugged his narrow hips. If eastern dandies had the merest notion how the slant of a bullet-laden gunbelt set a woman’s heart to pounding, she was convinced that New York and Connecticut would soon be as wild as the West.

“Oh, my.” But even as the wistful sigh escaped her lips, Amanda reminded herself that a woman who was engaged to be married had absolutely no business noticing the physical attributes of men. Strange men, too. Ones who, for all she knew, were only interested in dragging her back to her grandmother and pocketing the five-thousand-dollar reward.

She’d only escaped two days ago, tossing her hastily packed valise from the train as it slowed for the Omaha depot, then jumping after it, while her grandmother snored in her big upholstered chair. “Over my dead body,” the old woman had blustered. But as it turned out, over her snoring body had been adequate.

Amanda smiled, still quite pleased with herself for outfoxing the stubborn old vixen. She didn’t for a minute believe her grandmother didn’t have her well-being at heart, but this time Honoria Grenville was wrong. This time—for the first time in all her twenty-one years—Amanda knew what she wanted and, by heaven, she was going to get it, even if it meant slinking around train depots and begging favors from raggedy little shoeshine boys.

And where was that boy, anyway? Surely he’d had ample time to purchase her ticket by now. She’d have gone into the depot herself, but with those reward posters tacked on every available inch of wall, she didn’t dare. Her grandmother must have had them printed within minutes of her escape, then hired half the men in Nebraska to post them.

She paced back and forth now, squinting up at the sun, wishing she’d remembered to take her watch with her when she jumped off the train. If she had remembered it, though, she wouldn’t have had an excuse to ask that darkly handsome man for the time, though, would she?

A tiny grin itched at her lips. How shocked her grandmother would be at Amanda’s bold behavior. Of course, she hadn’t expected the man to pursue the brief conversation. Or her. That worried Amanda considerably. What if he had seen one of the posters?

It suddenly occurred to her then that the little boy might have seen one of the dratted posters inside the depot and run for help. Her fingers twitched at the sides of her skirt, ready to hike it up and make yet another escape, when she heard the soft jingle of spurs just around the corner of the building.

“Here you go, miss.”

When the handsome stranger held out a ticket, Amanda snatched it from his hand. Thank God, she wanted to wail, and had to swallow hard to keep from showing her incredible relief. But before she could subdue her vocal cords enough to offer a single word, the man quite literally chilled her with those blue eyes of his.